


neurotmesis

by LovelyLessie



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Gen, Introspection, Permanent Injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-12
Updated: 2014-07-12
Packaged: 2018-02-08 14:18:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1944345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LovelyLessie/pseuds/LovelyLessie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Things are different after Tony Stark comes home, after the attack, after the rescue. (A short story set in the Inclusive Marvel 'verse.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	neurotmesis

**Author's Note:**

> [Warnings: severe injuries, discussion of death, reference to suicide and depression, hints at alcohol abuse.]

[ **neurotmesis** :

 _the condition in which there is_  
complete division  
_of a nerve._

from Greek:neuron _\+ tmesis,_  “to cut”]

* * *

 

So, this is how it is, when you finally come home, when the doctors look you over and give you the rundown:

  * They can cut you open below the ribs and do an extensive, high-risk surgery that might save your heart, if they don’t miss anything.
  * They can operate on your spine to realign the damaged vertebrae.
  * They can’t repair the nerve damage in your lower back.



You don’t go for any of the surgeries. You hate doctors, hospitals, and operations, and both of them have a recovery time of practically forever which is totally not worth it. Your heart is safe with the magnet which is cool anyways, and the misaligned vertebrae which you can’t feel anyways aren’t going to make anything  _worse._

Besides, you can’t even stand now, so it’s not like anyone is going to notice your crooked spine.

So, this is how it is: you come home from the hospital in a wheelchair. Fine, okay. There’s elevators in your building. You can run a company in a wheelchair.

(It isn't convenient.

But it's doable. It’s fine. You’ll deal.)

—

There’s nothing like almost dying to make you realize you do, actually, still have a will to live.

So that’s sort of complicated. 

You’re glad you got out. You  _are._  And there’s something uniquely thrilling and relieving about realizing you’re scared to die. Yeah, by all rights you should have been finished. And maybe you didn’t deserve whatever twist of fate saved your ass. (Actually, you know you didn’t.) 

But you’re alive, which is pretty great, in a weird way. Your life outside of the company is a total wreck, sure. You were at best apathetic about being alive, before, which sort of ends up making a mess in general.

Still, you got to come home. It’s gotta be worth  _something._

—

"I’m not going to tell you you  _can’t_  pretend that you’re not using a wheelchair,” she tells you, in a voice that implies that’s exactly what she’s going to do. “I’m just going to say it will be a PR nightmare for the  _entire_  company to try and keep up with that.”

"That’s your job," you say.

"You’re being ridiculous," she says.

She’s probably right. You don’t care. You’re not ready to go public about the extent of your injuries. If you do, there will be questions, and you’ll have to talk about it, and it’s not going to happen.

"It’ll be a mess for PR anyways," you tell her. "You just said that. Like, ten minutes ago."

She makes that face with her eyes closed and her mouth very tight. “Mr Stark,” she says calmly.

"Hey," you say, "do you need a drink? Because I definitely need a drink."

She walks out of your office.

—

Thing is -

There was that soldier. He was a kid, practically. He didn’t get to come home, and you can’t help feeling there’s something wrong about that, like a weight in your chest, like a knot in your stomach.

That kid died over there, and you lived.

Fuck.

—

It’s not a spinal cord injury; the vertebrae got thrown out from the concussion, but the shrapnel didn’t break through your spine, just severed some peripheral nerves. No big deal or anything. After all, peripheral nerves can regrow, sometimes, if you’re lucky.

There’s a lot of pain, which you grit your teeth and deal with. They wrote you a prescription for some kind of special painkillers, which you don’t ever pick up. Instead you drink to take the edge off if it gets real bad.

Worse is the inconvenience. Hell if you knew how much you used your legs when you still could. Everything is a hundred times as difficult without them.

It’s hard, and you hate it, and that’s pretty much what there is to say about it.

—

"Yeah, they call it survivor’s guilt," he says when you tell him. "Maybe you’ve heard of it."

Great, you think, another way you’re fucked up. (You don’t tell him that.)

—

Thing is -

Lots of people survive car crashes. Lots of people don’t survive bombings. You’re here anyways. You run the statistics repeatedly. If you believed in them maybe it would be a miracle.

If it was about  _deserving_  it, this wouldn’t be the way it ended up. But this is how it is: chance lined up and you get another shot.

You think about the likelihood of dying in a car crash, multiplied by the likelihood of surviving an IED explosion. 

You decide, hell, you better do something worthwhile with it. 

—

You design a new power chair, which is definitely cooler than the old one. And better. In pretty much every way. And after that you start working on a new model of the suit.

Pepper calls in the prescription and picks up your painkillers for you. 

It’s not that it gets easier, except for having more practice. But you stop resenting it so much. Instead you manage it.

This is how it is.

 


End file.
